In an age where images travel faster than facts, the genocide unfolding in Gaza has become one of the most visually mediated atrocities of our time. As Israel continues its relentless bombardment, targeting civilian infrastructure and killing thousands of Palestinians, the struggle is not only over land and lives—but also over what the world gets to see, and who gets to control that narrative. British visual theorist Nicholas Mirzoeff speaks of “the right to look”—a radical demand not just to see, but to be seen; not just to witness, but to resist visual regimes that dehumanize and erase. In Gaza, this struggle plays out in painfully real terms: amid power cuts, bombings, and internet blackouts, Palestinians continue to share images and stories that defy the dominant narrative of the state. Israel’s visual regime operates through a tightly controlled system: restrictions on journalists, targeted attacks on media offices, and state-sanctioned narratives that portray military aggression as self-defense. This control extends to the digital sphere, where Palestinian accounts are shadow banned, censored, or deleted altogether. These tactics aren’t just about information—they're about visual dominance. The less the world sees, the easier it is to ignore genocide. Despite these efforts, Gaza has become a site of counter-visuality. Everyday Palestinians, often with little more than a phone and a data signal, are recording the destruction of their homes, the deaths of their families, and the haunting resilience of their communities. These images, raw and immediate, cut through sanitized media reports. They challenge viewers to confront the human cost of militarized colonialism. Visuals from Gaza resist erasure. The bloodied backpacks of children. The makeshift graves. The fathers holding lifeless bodies. These are not just moments of grief—they are deliberate, desperate assertions of presence. They ask the world to look, and in looking, to care. Mirzoeff’s idea of the “right to look” becomes not just theoretical but painfully urgent: in Gaza, to be seen is to insist on humanity in the face of dehumanization. International solidarity movements have responded with visuals of their own—marches, murals, flags, and placards across the globe. Protesters hold up enlarged photographs of Gazan children, chant their names, and recreate the destroyed streets of Rafah in performance art. This global visual response underscores that the fight is not only on the ground in Palestine, but also in the global imagination. At the heart of all this is a question: who gets to control what we see, and whose suffering is made visible? The visual culture around Gaza’s genocide reveals the deep imbalance in whose stories are told, whose pain is acknowledged, and whose lives are deemed grievable. But the images coming out of Gaza, shared in real time by survivors themselves, refuse this hierarchy. They demand that the world reckon with what is happening—not as a distant conflict, but as a genocide enabled by silence and sanitized screens. These visuals bear witness. They mourn, resist, and remind us that looking away is a political choice. In a world flooded with images, Gaza forces us to confront the ethical weight of seeing—and the radical potential of refusing to look away. In a world flooded with images, Gaza forces us to confront the ethical weight of seeing—and the radical potential of refusing to look away.